


Far Beyond Elsewhere

by OddlyExquisite



Series: Green Things [4]
Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, Star Wars Episode I: The Phantom Menace, Star Wars Prequel Trilogy
Genre: Love Letters, M/M, Mutually Unrequited
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-08
Updated: 2018-06-08
Packaged: 2019-05-19 14:51:04
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14875833
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OddlyExquisite/pseuds/OddlyExquisite
Summary: This is what it means to love a Jedi:The best things happen in the library.





	Far Beyond Elsewhere

**Author's Note:**

> 1) Thank you a thousand times over to my lovely, creative Beta, Merry_Amelie! She churned out my edits in a matter of hours, people. She's basically magic.
> 
> 2) If you need someone who can manage to fit 10 iterations of a definite article into one paragraph, I'm your gal. (Sorry, Merry!)

* * *

 

It was said that the Jedi did not know fear. Much of the galaxy held this adage to be true, and so every Jedi knew there were certain expectations that came with it. A rural village on Bespin assumed the same thing as the citizens of Coruscant: to be a Jedi was to move forward into darkness, unafraid.

Here was the truth of it:

Fear was the old enemy; a monster that would suck the marrow from your bones if you allowed it. It would follow in your shadow’s footsteps, claw on your door at night, and whisper that your goodness was not enough to tip the balance against your limits, your failures, your weaknesses.

The Jedi could not always be a triumphant force of good, a piercing ray of light that banished the shadows. Sometimes they were just a being holding a candle in a dark room and sometimes it would have to be enough. This was the secret to being a Jedi; you had to believe that your inadequacies were not enough to outweigh the good you did in the universe.

In the end, fear was a choice.

Obi-Wan would live a long life. He would have a good deal of time to contemplate the differences between the absence of fear and the mastery of it. And while he might never have reached a conclusion about the nature of the Jedi and their place in the universe, he would come to know this one truth about himself:

Being a Jedi meant facing your failures and still choosing courage, every time.

*********

A week after their dinner together, Obi-Wan sees his former Master in the refectory and feels the planet’s axis tilt beneath him.

Qui-Gon is fresh from the salle, hair piled atop his head, sweat beading his temples, glistening at the base of his throat. Obi-Wan could not say how long it had been since he’d been close to the man; close enough to recognize the scent of him after a fight, or the noise he’d make hitting the ground in the salle. He only knows it has been enough time that Qui-Gon without his robes of station looks startlingly casual. The Jedi Master wears only a simple tunic, and breeches that display lean, powerful legs and a firm--

Obi-Wan hurriedly turns away and focuses instead on the selection of cheeses available in the buffet line.

“Imported directly from Endor,” the refectory attendant tells him cheerfully, gesturing to a sample.

Obi-Wan grunts wordlessly. He takes a few pieces and glances back at the crowd while the Kamarian in front of him monopolizes the salad bar.

Qui-Gon has moved toward a table and is speaking with another Master, the one that had exited his room with him, all those months ago. Something the man says makes Qui-Gon’s shoulders shake with laughter. Obi-Wan closes his eyes and consciously loosens his grip on the tray he is holding.

“You alright, Obi?” Bant asks from beside him in line.

“Never better,” he replies, aggressively spearing tubers onto his plate.

Bant puts a hand on his forearm. “Listen, maybe we should just-”

“Ah, wampa steak! One of my favorites.”

Bant turns at the same time he does, and all of a sudden they are face to face with Qui-Gon. The Jedi Master enthusiastically piles the meat onto his plate, chatting briefly with the refectory attendant about the merits of hard versus soft cheeses. Up close, Obi-Wan can’t help but note the bruises that mottle the man’s hands where Anakin has been careless with his ‘saber. Can’t help but notice that Qui-Gon’s bare forearms are dotted with grime from the training room floor, that the Jedi Master’s tunic sticks to his damp skin, and the artificial light turns his blue eyes grey. Obi-Wan can’t help but notice how healthy and strong and happy the man is...how different from the weak body in the bacta tank he used to be.

Qui-Gon looks up and holds the steak tongs out to him with a smile.

_Hold a thing too tightly and you will smother it..._

Obi-Wan’s stomach twists.

“No, thank you,” he says primly, and turns back to the vegetables.

*********

Later that night, Obi-Wan meditates on self-pity.

He gives up after half an hour, and sits back on his elbows, feeling every bit the apprentice he thought he’d left behind after Naboo.

_It would have been selfish to keep you..._

While Qui-Gon might have been right in that regard, Obi-Wan thinks, that wasn’t entirely the point.

*********

Qui-Gon spies his former apprentice in the Temple library about nine days after their dinner together. The young Knight is ensconced in a mostly abandoned section of the library, curled up on a window seat, studying a scroll with an intensity he usually reserved for the laws of thermodynamics or something of that nature. The mid-afternoon sun beams bright through the glass window.  

“What are you reading?” he calls out.

Obi-Wan looks up, eyes warm and sleepy from the afternoon sun. “Poetry.” He sits up, stretching lazily.

“Hm.” Qui-Gon sits beside him. “Not your usual reading material, is it?”

Obi-Wan makes a noise of agreement and they sit in silence for a short time.

Qui-Gon clears his throat. “Obi-Wan, since our dinner, I...have been thinking.”

“Oh?” the young man’s voice is sharp. The Jedi Master glances over at his former apprentice, but Obi-Wan’s eyes are fixed on the worn carpet beneath their feet. Patches of the blue and brown pattern have faded to grey; threadbare, well-worn by the feet that had trod upon it.  

“I know,” Qui-Gon begins slowly, covering a grey patch with his heel, “that this is not what you pictured for yourself.”

Obi-Wan is quiet.

The Jedi Master forges on. “Your Knighting, and what happened after. With Anakin and between us. I’m sorry for it. I would have told you earlier. I wanted to, but there was no right time and you have hardly been home.”

“A Jedi shall have no home but that which he finds in the Force. This is the law eternal.”

Qui-Gon looks down at his lap. “To have a home in the Force does not mean you are forbidden to have a home elsewhere.”

“You are alive and whole,” Obi-Wan continues, ignoring him. “ _That_ is what I pictured. That in itself is gift enough. You hardly need to apologize for the rest.”

“You are not happy with your place here.”

“I do not need happiness to know my duty to the Order.”

Qui-Gon flinches.

“A Jedi cannot afford to be selfish, Master,” Obi-Wan says, standing to leave. “You said so yourself over dinner.”

“Yes,” Qui-Gon says sadly. “Yes, I know.”

*********

Lately, Qui-Gon spends a lot of time thinking about his failures.

*********

Younglings in the creche grew up hearing that fear led to the Dark Side. Those warnings were all very well and good in theory, but things were different in practice. You had to learn how to stymie your fear, how to reach above it, how to move around it because entire galaxies counted on your courage.

Negotiating your fears became more difficult when you came back. It was harder when you were no longer walking through war zones and dodging blaster fire. How could you stymie the fears you carried with you? How could you move around fears that chased you in your dreams?   

How could you reach above the fear of what you are? Of what darkness lay dormant inside of you?

People said the Jedi were never afraid, but Jedi were just people, too.

*********

Obi-Wan realizes that he hasn’t received any letters in a while. It isn’t that he misses them; he just wonders if it is evidence that his affections have become embarrassingly obvious. How could others have noticed what Qui-Gon did not?

Nevertheless, he pays a visit to the mailroom, desperate for the official reinstatement letter from the Council.

“Nope, nothing for ya,” the mail attendant says, snapping the gum in her mouth.

“Have you checked everywhere?” Obi-Wan asks as politely as he can.

“Yuh-huh.” Her nails click against the counter.

“Is it possible that you may have lost something?”

Her glare could have melted the hull of a starship. “Tell ya what, honey,” she says, leaning onto her elbows, “you get a letter and I will have it delivered directly to your doorstep by the Post Master herself, got it?”

“I’m not sure that’s necessary,” Obi-Wan says, “but thank you for the offer.”

*********

The pinewood box had been with Obi-Wan on Allyuen.

He told himself he’d brought it as a reminder of the Temple and the friends he’d left behind there. It was a year-long mission, after all. It would be a while before he saw another Jedi besides Qui-Gon. Later, though, he would admit to himself that he’d brought the box for another reason entirely.

A year before that mission, Obi-Wan had noticed one day that the box was out of place. Upon opening it, he’d found that the letters inside were no longer in the same order he had kept them, that some of the ribbons holding the bundles of flimsy together had come undone. Of course, the only logical explanation was that a thief had entered their quarters, read the letters, and left without taking anything, or that Qui-Gon had found the box, and opened it.

There was no way to know for certain, really. If Qui-Gon had been the one to open the box, he hadn’t acted any differently for it. He hadn’t made any inquiries, mentioned the letters, or otherwise let on that he now knew what Obi-Wan had kept from him all these years.

This realization led Obi-Wan to wondering that day; wondering what Qui-Gon thought of the love letters, what he thought of the people who wrote them, what he thought of his apprentice, now. Whether or not Qui-Gon had written a love letter before. Whether he ever would again. Whether Qui-Gon would ever write a love letter to him.

So a year later, he’d brought the box to Allyuen.

And nothing had happened.

*********

Eventually, Obi-Wan reaches a decision.

It wasn’t spurred by Bant’s (often abrasive) pep talks, Garen’s nonchalant analysis, or even the wounded expression in Qui-Gon’s eyes every time Obi-Wan performed the ritual bow of a Knight to Master in public.

Obi-Wan had been reading poetry.

 

_How does a part of the world leave the world?_

_How can wetness leave water?_

_No matter how fast you run,_

_your shadow more than keeps up._

_But that shadow has been serving you!_

_What hurts you, blesses you._

_Darkness is your candle._

_Your boundaries are your quest._

_You must have shadow and light source both._

 

How could part of the world leave the world? How could wetness leave water? How could fear leave a lovelorn heart? What hurts you, blesses you, your boundaries are your quest.

And suddenly, it clicked.

Obi-Wan wakes with a start, face down on the scroll in the Temple library. The room was dark and still, dust motes barely visible by the light of the traffic flitting outside the library window. His heart is pounding as if he’d just leapt from a cliff, and maybe he had, because beneath the thrill of fear, the guilt, the anxiety, there was a place of deep knowing that said: _He deserves more of a truth than you’ve offered him._  

 *******  
**  

Qui-Gon is in the salle when Obi-Wan finds him the next day, watching Anakin move his lightsaber around the room with nothing but the Force.

The Jedi Master beckons to him when Obi-Wan buzzes himself in, running a hand through his unruly hair. He hadn’t gotten a wink of sleep last night, he was still wearing his clothes from the previous day, and no matter how many times he’d tried to think of something else, he couldn’t seem to forget the sound of Qui-Gon’s voice as he told the creation myth of Allyuen’s deserts.

_“There is a legend among the Allyuen, about a heartbroken sun god who waged war on the sea, and in his wrath, destroyed the earth he had so loved. A lesson, the story goes, to jealous lovers. Hold a thing too tightly and you will smother it… this is the worst kind of murder.”_

Obi-Wan shivers despite the heat of the room.

Qui-Gon doesn’t seem to notice. He sends Anakin off to the main chamber for a water break, and turns his attention to his former apprentice. After their last parting, Obi-Wan does not expect a warm welcome.

“It is good to see you,” the Jedi Master says hesitantly, searching his apprentice’s tired face.

Obi-Wan looks away. “I have not been entirely honest with you,” he admits to the floor. His heart is pounding so loudly that he is sure the other man can hear it.

“What do you mean?” A furrow mars Qui-Gon’s brow and Obi-Wan feels his heart sink.

“I mean,” Obi-Wan says, “that I'm sorry for what I said. For my spite, and my fear. I only thought about what had been done to me, not what I was doing to you.”

“You have every right to be angry,” Qui-Gon says quietly, clasping his hands behind his back.

“No, don’t. It’s not you, Qui-Gon, I...gods, this is harder than I expected.” Obi-Wan steps back and scrubs at his face with his hands.

The Jedi Master steps closer. Closer than one might expect of a Master and apprentice. Closer even, than one might expect of a friend. “Obi-Wan?”

“Yes?” the red-haired Knight replies, rubbing his eyes with the heels of his hands.

“Look at me.”

“I’m not sure I can, to be honest.”

A warm hand cups one of his elbows before grasping his wrist. Obi-Wan lowers his hands reluctantly, fully expecting the other man to pull away. But he doesn’t.

“Qui-Gon?” He is surprised at how breathy his voice sounds. How shaky.

“Nothing you could say would make me think any less of you.”

Obi-Wan shudders and steps away. “You don’t know that.”

“Of course I know that,” the Jedi Master says patiently. “I haven’t been honest with you, either.”

The door on the other side of the room slides open and Anakin bounces in with two full flasks of water.

Qui-Gon sees the boy and shakes his head. “Obi-Wan…”

“It’s fine.” The younger man smiles ruefully. “Now isn’t a good time.”

The grey haired Jedi sighs. "It never is."

*********

Sometimes, Obi-Wan thought, risk was its own reward. 

Perhaps this wasn't one of those times.

*********

_Bang. Bang. Bang._

“Alright, alright!” Obi-Wan shouts at the door, rolling out of bed with a groan. “Half a minute!”

He rubs the sleep from his eyes and tries to keep the flood of memories from the day before at bay, feeling both embarrassment and anxiety at the thought of facing Qui-Gon again. There was nothing he could do about it now. He had to tell him.

Obi-Wan flicks the foyer light on and palms the door open.

The Post Master is standing there, grizzled hair pulled into a tight bun, and an impatient look about her.

“I told the attendant it wasn’t necessary,” Obi-Wan says quickly, holding his hands up in surrender. The last thing he wanted was to incur the wrath of the mailing department.

The Post Master grunts. “Don’t worry, we’ll charge you for it if it makes you feel better,” she says in a gravelly voice, and hands him a white envelope.

Obi-Wan sighs. “So be it.”

He opens the envelope carelessly, tearing into it with the same disregard he’d given all the other ones.

“I’d be careful with that if I were you,” the Post Master grumbles, “special delivery.”

Obi-Wan ignores her advice, shucking the envelope to the floor like a corn husk. He opens the letter and sees the same bold handwriting, the dark ink that smelled like moss. He begins to read.

 

_I slept there the night you said, ‘I think I’m falling in love with you,’_

_igniting a great unendurable belongingness, like a match in a forest fire._

_I burned so long so quiet you must have wondered if I loved you back._

_I did._

_I did._

_I do._

 

“I’m so sorry,” Obi-Wan says faintly, “I need to go.”

Obi-Wan runs.

The Post Master watches him go and picks the envelope up off of the floor with a heavy sigh.

*********

The Temple library was a sacred place. It was a wood and stone creation, marked by several architectural styles and oddly shaped corners; the archive additions hadn’t been planned, and the climate-controlled vault had been an unforeseen necessity as well, according to Temple records. It was a vast space, and a strange one. If there hadn’t been books on every wall and scrolls in every crevice, Obi-Wan wouldn’t have been convinced that every inch of the place had been explored and given a purpose. 

When Obi-Wan finally chances upon his target in the poetry section, he does not care who is nearby to hear the encounter.

“You!” Obi-Wan practically shouts, brandishing the letter in front of him. “You wrote this?!”

Qui-Gon looks up from where he was crouched on the floor, rifling through parchments that hadn’t been deemed important enough for the vault. He had pulled his hair back into a knot, trying to fend off the heat of the city in summer.

“You might consider lowering your voice,” the Jedi Master says mildly, gazing at the flustered Knight as though they had just met at market and were discussing the price of grain. “There are other people around.”

Obi-Wan stares at the man in half frustration, half amazement. “It was you, wasn't it?”

“Yes.”

“You _heard_ me? That night on Allyuen?”

“Yes.”

“It was you, all along?”  
  
Qui-Gon rises from the floor, hovering close to the bookcase, painful uncertainty coiling cold through his chest. “Did you not want it to be?”

Obi-Wan is trembling from a curious mix of emotions he hasn’t the wherewithal to sort out at the moment, but he’s never seen this expression on Qui-Gon’s face, this fragile vulnerability in his sea-glass eyes. He feels the anger drain away. “Did I _want_ it to be?”

Qui-Gon shifts nervously as Obi-Wan stalks toward him. “I am not young anymore, and I don’t have anything to offer--”

“Do you have _any_ idea how long I’ve been in love with you?” Obi-Wan demands, jabbing him in the chest. “ _Any_ idea whatsoever?”

There is a pause before an incredulous smile spreads across Qui-Gon’s face. “You love me?”

“Yes, you bloody idiot, _yes_! I wouldn’t have said it if I hadn’t meant it!”

“It’s been years. You could have changed your mind.” Qui-Gon murmurs, reaching out and pulling the smaller man close, running his hands beneath the standard-issue tunic to caress warm skin.

“Well, I haven’t,” Obi-Wan says mulishly, fisting his hands in the other man’s shirt, “so are you going to kiss me, or are we going to waste another 5 years chatting about it?”

The corners of the Jedi Master’s eyes crinkle. They are so close that Obi-Wan can feel Qui-Gon’s puff of laughter brush his face. “Impertinent.”

Obi-Wan’s retort is lost as Qui-Gon presses him up against the bookcase and captures his mouth in a desperate kiss, demanding and soft all at once. For a few impossibly long heartbeats there is only the taste of Qui-Gon, the feel of a hard-muscled body against his, and the thick pulse of desire between them. Obi-Wan reaches up and tugs the Jedi Master’s hair loose, curling his fingers into the silken strands, gasping against Qui-Gon’s lips when he is pulled flush and tight against the other man’s muscular frame.

Obi-Wan makes a plaintive sound in the back of his throat when Qui-Gon finally moves away.

“If we don’t stop soon, I’ll have you on the floor,” Qui-Gon murmurs into the crook of the smaller man’s neck.

Obi-Wan blushes. He plants a quick kiss on the Jedi Master’s temple. “I wouldn’t mind.”

Qui-Gon’s breathy chuckle turns into a moan as Obi-Wan rolls his hips against him. “Someone might see us…”

“I don’t care,” Obi-Wan growls, “besides, who reads poetry anymore?”

Qui-Gon laughs and leans down for another kiss.

*********

This is what it means to be a Jedi:

You love.

You love.

You love.

**Author's Note:**

> The first poem that appears here is an excerpt from Rumi's "Enough Words?", and the second is an excerpt from "The Pillowcase" by Annelyse Gelman.


End file.
